


A Father's Fear

by LananiA3O



Series: Batman: Arkham Compendium [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arson, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied Character Death, Swearing, graphic descriptions of burn injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 17:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12017562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: Batman gets injected with fear gas when he and Robin try to stop Scarecrow after he sets a library on fire, so he knows that thinking Jason might still be in there is very likely a fear toxin hallucination. But is it really? On the off chance that it might be real and he would let his son die if he didn't act, Bruce jumps back into the fire...





	A Father's Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said that I was done writing angst for a bit?  
> I lied.  
> Well, not really. I hadn't exactly planned to write this, but it's been a slow day.  
> This one has a happy ending, though. And it's in canon with the rest of my Compendium.
> 
> For story upates, character discussions and random shenanigans, please go to my blog:  
> lananiscorner.tumblr.com

_It is just the toxin. Just the toxin. Just the toxin. Not real. Just toxin. Not real. NOT real._

Bruce repeated the words over and over in his head as he dug through the rubble. All around him, the fires were still raging, scorching tongues of a thousand shades of orange licking at the ceiling, at the debris and at his cape. Smoke rose dark and thick and acid from the crumbling paper of a hundred books littering the floor. The shelves were walls of fire, slowly melting around him, the dark wood glowing red in the threatening light.

Red glow, red vest. Yellow flames, yellow cape. Grey smoke, grey pants. How was he supposed to find Robin in here? He couldn’t even see!

 _You know you could, but you don’t remember how, do you?_ Scarecrow whispered in the back of his head, just beneath his skull, not at all helpful _. If only you could remember…_

But he couldn’t. It’s not like he hadn’t tried, but Bruce just could not remember. Had Jas—Robin gone back into the library, chasing after Scarecrow? Had they missed any of the children who had come here for Open Book Day? Bruce Wayne has sponsored that event at Jason’s suggestion. A chance for Gotham’s least fortunate children to get free access to the library, to read anything they wanted. _It was my idea. Dear God, this was my idea!_

He dug faster, even as the Kevlar covering his hands started to heat up uncomfortably. Maybe this was just fear toxin. Maybe Jason had not gone back inside. Maybe he was waiting outside, looking after the children they had rescued. Maybe Bruce was being stupid and digging himself deeper into his own fiery grave.

But what if he was not?

What if, by some remote chance, this was NOT Crane’s toxin warping his mind? Jason _was_ impulsive. Jason _was_ fierce. Jason _was_ determined. Jason _was_ relentless. What if he really had gone back into the library, to look for stragglers? What if he really was in here somewhere, in the smoke, in the flames, unable to find his way out because he could not see his own hand in front of his eyes?

To his right, one of the shelves finally cracked under the strain. The wood creaked miserably, moaning in pain as the fire ate through it and broke it down, piece by piece. Then, in one swift motion, the sides splintered, sending the rest crashing onto the cracking floor and spewing a mixture of ash, sparks and sawdust in his direction. Bruce coughed through the sting in his throat as he inhaled the breath of death.

What if Jason really was in here, trapped underneath a broken shelf, a mouth full of ash and a lung full of sawdust? What if he was really in here, flames licking at his boots and his cowl and eating through his suit and skin and flesh?

He had to know. He had to make sure. Bruce pushed his doubts back down and proceeded deeper into the library. If there was even the glimmer of a possibility that Jason was in here, trapped in this hell, he had to look for him. He was his Robin, his _son_. Bruce was not the greatest father. He knew that much, but even lousy fathers do not stand by the side of the road while their sons burn to death in a house fire. He had to make sure, Scarecrow be damned. He had to go back into the inferno. He had to.

 _Technically, you do have other ways to make sure that he is safe, don’t you?_ Scarecrow whispered. _But you don’t remember what they are. It is at the tip of your tongue, at the top of your skull, but you don’t remember…_

Wherever that thought had been going suddenly became meaningless as the upper floor of the main gallery collapsed all around him. A frightened yelp sounded from somewhere in the thick clouds of black cinders to his right.

“Robin!” He pushed forward through the heat and the rubble, through the flames and the swamp of burned pages, through the aching of his oxygen-starved body and the paralyzed shock of his mind. “Jason!”

“Batman?!”

 _It is him…_ Bruce pushed forward harder. That voice had definitely been Jason, high-pitched and cracking, with that distinct Park Row edge that hardened his Ts and turned his Rs into guttural growls. No hallucination could be this precise, this familiar. It was not just toxin. It was not just in his head. Jason was here and he was in pain, if the second yelp piercing through the darkness was anything to go by.

“I’m coming, Jay! Hold on a little longer! I’m coming!” This was taking too long. Bruce cursed silently as he put all his weight into moving the heavy beams of singed wood that were blocking his path to the archives. “Jason—“

The scream was sudden, frantic and utterly terrifying. It was not a short yelp. It was the desperate, pained cry of a dying thing that started out with a full set of lungs and a blood stream flooded with adrenaline, and ended with an anguished rattle as the last shreds of strength, of life, faded.

“JASON!”

It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be too late. He swallowed the fear together with a mouthful of ash and pushed through the door that lead to the _Natural Sciences_ section. Of course Jason would be in the natural sciences section. Other children might have rushed for the comics. Some might have gone for fiction. Jason would go for text books. Bruce shook his head as he half-walked, half-crawled through the battlefield of fire and debris.

He found him in the far right corner. _A for Anatomy_. A charred heart of plastic cracked under his boots as he dived forward to push the broken, burning pieces of wood off the small body. The tender skin – previously pale from too little sunlight and too many nights on patrol – was burnt black, peeling off the flesh in papery layers. Underneath the blackened muscle, bone shone through bright and white. One of the small hands was clutching the crumbling remains of a book, the other was twisted in unnatural angles underneath a piece of crumbled ceiling. The unruly, coal-black mop of hair was gone, burnt to a crisp in the searing heat, but the eyes were still there, dead orbs of soot-covered white and pale blue staring into nothingness.

“Jason!” He felt for the pulse at the leathery neck and found nothing. The wrist cracked and broke under his touch. He tried the carotid artery again, but still no sign of life. He set the cowl to run a vitals scan that came up negative. Nothing. “Jason… No…”

His hands trembled as he reached around the torso – still so small, too damn small, dear God, hadn’t he even done that right? Hadn’t he at least been enough of a father to provide his son with the nutrition he had missed out on in all those years? The back was practically melted to the floor boards and the sound it made as he pried if off and pressed the tiny body close to his chest made his stomach curl. Bile rose in his throat at the horrid smell of burnt… everything. It smelled of fire and smoke. It smelled of death.

“Jason…” Bruce pulled him closer and kissed the top of the burnt head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Fourteen months and six days. That was all the time they had had. Fourteen months and six days since a thirteen-year-old had tried to steal his tires. Fourteen months and six days of happiness and grief, of progress and frustration, of pride and disappointment, of laughter and anger. Fourteen months and six days in which the manor had felt a little warmer and his life had felt a little more meaningful and, no matter how many fights they had, no matter who much Jason sometimes made him him rage and worry, his soul had felt a little lighter, knowing that there was a meaning to it all, that he was not alone in this world and neither was Jason.

Fourteen months. Six days. It was too little too late. It wasn’t fair.

The tears were coming fast enough, but it was too hot for them to survive long outside of his eyes. They evaporated in the inferno raging around him, one more thing snuffed out by this fire. Underneath all the Kevlar and leather, his skin was starting to itch from the heat. Bruce could not have cared less. Jason was gone. His son was gone. If the inferno wanted to claim him as well, he would welcome it with open arms. He had failed the one person who needed him the most. Jason was gone and with every second that passed the thought dug a hole deeper into his heart. He was faintly aware of the fact that he should probably leave, even though neither the suspicious cracking of the ceiling nor the dangerous intensity of the fire nor the thickness of the smoke reached him anymore. He wanted to stay here, with Jason. Holding him. Just a little longer. Just a little—

Suddenly, a shadow fell above him. Hands tugged at his own, prying them off the charred back. Someone was trying to take Jason from him. Angry words flew into his ear, but he couldn’t hear them, couldn’t care to answer them as he pushed and swung at the hands trying to take his son – his _dead_ son – away from him.

Whoever it was did not give a damn about Jason or his corpse. The hands reached and pulled hard, tearing his son to shreds right in front of his eyes and throwing him into the blaze. Bruce screamed as the flames consumed him, ever-hungry, ever-scorching. He got up to break the monster that had taken what had been left of Jason away from him for good, only to get tackled hard, an expertly applied grip circling his waist as strong legs shoved him off balance and through a wall of fire. Glass broke all around him and suddenly he was falling. One of the arms around him let go, only to be replaced by two legs. One sharp, metallic click and a sudden tug later, his fall was broken. Whoever lowered the two of them to the ground was muttering a string of harsh obscenities under their breath. Only once they finally got to the ground did his ‘savior’ let go.

_Savior…_

Bruce had not wanted to be saved. He had not wanted to live. He still didn’t. He wanted to be up there. With Jason. He had to get him, get his body at least. A proper burial. That was the least Jason deserved after everything life had put him through. A proper burial.

“No, you fucking don’t!”

The hands pulled at his once more and he swatted them away again. For the first time, he got a look at the man who had saved him and the sight set his gut on fire with rage.

He was wearing Jason’s colors. He was wearing Jason’s goddamn red and greyish-green.

He started with a feinted kick and followed it up with a solid right hook that connected hard. The man howled and cursed as blood spilled from his burst lip. He was lucky Bruce had not broken his jaw. Yet. He struck again, but this time his opponent ducked and answered with a kick of his own. He blocked the jab aimed for his neck and retaliated with a kick that hit absolutely nothing, then went for a tackle that ended with his face smothered in heavy, flowing Kevlar. Something pricked at his throat, piercing through the fabric of his own suit, and suddenly his limbs felt too heavy. _Sedative_. He tried to fight, but less than two minutes into it, everything started to feel like foam all around him. Even the arms holding him as his body surrendered control of his drugged limbs felt too soft to be real. A few feet in front of him, the old library building gave one last ominous crack before coming apart with a clap like thunder, crumbling in on itself as the fire devoured it and Jason.

As his mind slowly slipped into darkness, all Bruce felt was regret.

***

He returned to consciousness with the gradual rise of awareness that usually came with deep sleep. That in and of itself was alarming. Bruce hardly ever slept deeply.

There were voices next to him, to his left, if he wasn’t mistaken. One of them was soft and calm, the other harsh and angry. Light flooded his eyes as he tried to open them and Bruce groaned. His throat felt as if he had gargled razor blades with vodka, but at least the voices stopped, even if only for a few seconds. Then, the young, angry voice continued muttering away.

“—so fucking bad. I swear, next time this bastard tries to burn himself to death, I’ll let him.”

“Language, Master Todd.” _Alfred._ Bruce recognized that voice. That was definitely Alfred. “Blood scans indicate that Master Bruce was injected with a large quantity of Scarecrow’s fear gas. He was clearly not in full control of his own actions when he went back into that building.”

“No sheet.” The boy next to his bed took a long gulp from a glass of water and Bruce’s heart stopped.

His hair was singed around the edges, as was his suit, his face was smudged with soot and there was a nasty cut by the side of his mouth, surrounded by reddish skin that indicated a bruise that would form soon enough. He was marred and battered, but it was him. Or, at the very least, it looked like him.

“Jason?”

“No, I’m the fucking tooth fairy!”

“Master Todd—“

“Yes, language, I know.” The boy rolled his eyes and his shoulders, only to get a nasty cracking sound in return.

Bruce swallowed hard. Hope was a terrible thing. “You’re alive.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“That’s not—” He tried to get up, but the fire that suddenly erupted in his lungs made him wince hard enough to bring two kevlar-gloved hands down onto his chest. The boy – _Jason_ , Bruce could tell from the eyes, those big, pale blue eyes, that it was really him – scoffed at his meager attempt to move.

“You stay right here until Alfred gives you the all clear. Don’t make me break out the lorazepam again.” He stole a quick look around the room, before muttering under his breath. “I already had to drag your ass to the Batmobile and you’re fucking heavy.”

There it was. The guttural growl in his Rs. The harsh edge to his Ts. The cracking in between words as his voice tried to adjust to the hormonal changes that a year of proper nutrition had finally allowed his body to go through. He watched as Jason took off his gauntlets and couldn’t help scowling at the way the ends of his sleeves rode too high on the arm.

“Your shirt is too short.”

“Yeah…” Jason scratched at the offending fabric. “Growing another inch or two, I think.”

“Good.”

Jason looked at him, puzzled, but Bruce couldn’t care less. Jason was growing. Dead boys don’t grow. Jason wasn’t dead. He’d gladly blow a couple more thousand dollars on another wardrobe change for that.

“You know you look kind of creepy when you smile?” Jason shook his head. Alfred entered with a tray and Bruce watched silently as Jason muttered something or another to him, before downing his cup of tea in quick gulps. “I’m going to bed and so should you. Get some rest, both of you.”

Alfred waited until Jason’s steps up the stairs back into the manor rang through the cave, then turned to Bruce. There was a curious mix of harshness and empathy in his eyes. “Master Bruce, what on Earth did Crane’s poison make you see to have you running back into an already evacuated, burning building full of highly flammable materials?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Bruce regretted it the moment he said it. Alfred didn’t even have to speak. His disappointed scowl alone and spoke volumes. “I thought…” He swallowed hard. “I thought Jason had gone back inside. I wanted to get him. I had to find him. I—“

 _I did find him_ , Bruce nearly said, but thankfully his brain managed to reign his tongue in just in time. He didn’t even want to think about who or what he had hallucinated to be Jason’s corpse. Since it had been the _A for Anatomy_ section, it might just have been a stupid practice dummy. He had made so many stupid mistakes. He could have switched on the detective vision lenses of his cowl to see if there was anyone left inside. He could have contacted Jason through the comms. He should have.

“Did we get everyone out?”

“Yes, Master Bruce.” Alfred held a cup of black tea to his lips and let him drink slowly. “Not a single casualty. And I suggest you go to sleep right now, before you give me another near heart attack.”

It sounded tempting. He felt sleepy. Exhausted, really. His limbs were still heavy, his lungs were still burning. But his head was starting to clear and that was what mattered.

“I’ll sleep upstairs. Good night, Alfred.”

He didn’t wait for his reply and he was grateful Alfred did not try to stop him either. Walking was slow work and the floor still felt like foam beneath his feet, but he had to make sure. With small steps, Bruce made his way through the cave and over to the quick entrance tunnel that connected the cave with Jason’s room. Darkness swallowed him as the elevator ascended and for a few seconds the fear was back. The fear that he would arrive at the top only to find an empty room, with an empty bed. Sometimes, the human mind was a cruel thing.

The book shelf slid sideways with a quiet swish and the air that greeted him was hot and dry, just as Jason usually kept his room. Two degrees warmer than every other room in the house. Dry. Clean. Safe. He stepped into the room and surveyed his surroundings quickly. Everything was in perfect order, not a single book out of place, not a single pencil out of order. On Jason’s desk, a half-read earmarked copy of _Neuroscience Monthly_ dared him to read about disassociative behavior from children with PTSD, but he decided to ignore it for now. Right now, there were more important things to worry about.

Jason was lying in his bed, curled up into a little bundle, as usual. His hair was an unruly shock of coal black that stuck up in odd angles, still wet from the shower Jason had probably taken immediately upon returning to his room. The cut on his cheek didn’t look so bad anymore, even though it still stood out in stark contrast to his pale skin. Most importantly though, his shoulder was rising and falling ever so slightly as deep breaths filled and then escaped his lungs. Bruce sat down carefully, put his index and middle finger against the bare throat and started counting to sixty.

 _Fifty-five_. Fifty-five was good, if a little high for someone who was sleeping. Bruce let out a relieved sigh.

“You know watching people while they are sleeping is fucking creepy, right?” A hand emerged from underneath the crimson comforter to move his fingers away from Jason’s throat. The grip was firm, but not aggressive. A definite improvement. Beneath the black hair, a pair of pale blue eyes gazed at him lazily. Jason sighed. “Go to bed already, Bruce.” His eyes shut again. Through the tight press of his lips, Jason’s muttering was barely audible. “I’ll still be here tomorrow, no worries.”

 _I do worry_ , Bruce wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. He worried daily and tonight his worst fears had almost come true. They _had been_ true in his head, but they were not true now. And in the end, that was all that mattered. Jason was still alive. His son was still alive. Bruce took a deep breath and let the tension bleed out of his body with a heavy sigh. He ran a hand through that black hair, then got up and drew the comforter back over Jason’s hand and shoulder.

Tonight, Jason was alive. Tonight, Jason was safe. There was no greater blessing than that.

“Good night, son.”


End file.
